


Good Thing

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And this was written pre-Season 3, Fine Young Cannibals, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury, Other, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Recovery, Sherlock Holmes can Dance, So at the time i was just speculating, because it's the only thing i write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:56:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BBCverse Post-Adventure of the Three Gerridebs. John returns home after a stint in the hospital. Sherlock cares for him and ends up going above and beyond what he ever thought he would do for a friend. Slash or gen, it's up to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Thing

**Author's Note:**

> **Inspirations for this fic include:**  
>  *THC  
> *White wine  
> *[Good Thing by Fine Young Cannibals.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrOek4z32Vg/)
> 
> Hydros and Brit pop rock. Sorry if my Sherlock seems ooc...i don't think it's that much of a stretch. You can view their relationship as either platonic or pre-slash here, i'm never sure with these two. And when i imagine BC's Sherlock getting down it's a mix of Michael Jackson and a stripper with some Fosse maybe. Will probably connect this with my other Sherlock fic at some point. 
> 
> And no, i don't use quotation marks. It's just how i roll.

The journey from sidewalk to front door was pretty painful but John Watson was used to pain. The wounds in his ribs and leg seared hot every time his foot made contact with a step but the pain medication was thrumming in his bloodstream and the v of Sherlock’s hand was braced hard under his armpit, taking a good deal of the strain. 

The detective had barely eaten, slept, or left John’s side for the duration of his hospital stay. On the second day Sherlock chewed his bottom lip so hard that it split and bled. And as they ascended the stairs to their flat John realized through the easy haze of the opiate that while he 

1\. Hated seeing his friend so anxious that  
2\. It was worth any wound (or a dozen of them) to keep Sherlock safe and also  
3\. To finally see the depth of Sherlock’s devotion in his subsequent care, in  
a. the gentleness of his hands and  
b. the uncustomary endlessness of his patience

then a pulse of vertigo hit him and all he could feel was the overwhelming wavering of his consciousness and the steady throbbing of his abused nerves  
Rest for a moment, Sherlock murmured, holding him. We’re nearly there. John gripped at the banister and waited for the dizziness to abate before he tried again. 

By the time they made it to the top John was sweating and panting slightly and Sherlock was supporting more of his weight than he was. The crutch helped a little but the act of moving still jarred his injuries and the medication made his head swim. 

You should lie down on the sofa and i'll start a fire, Sherlock said as he fumbled for his keys. Or do you need to use the toilet first. John nodded. 

Probably a good idea, he said as they crossed the threshold. i won’t want to move once i’m settled. 

i’m not leaving you alone in there you know, Sherlock told him. You can hardly stand as it is. i’m sorry if—

It’s fine, John interrupted, standing his crutch up against the wall. It doesn’t bother me. John knew that he couldn’t get rid of Sherlock even if he tried; the man had been hovering for four days and showed no signs of letting up yet (and he really could use the help, John knew that too, he did know).

They both went into the bathroom and stood in front of the toilet. John kept one arm around Sherlock’s waist for balance and tugged down his tracksuit bottoms with his free hand. His side had started to really ache (deeply, to the bone) but he at least managed to get his pants down and piss without getting it all over the seat. When he’d finished Sherlock reached out to flush the toilet and lead him over to the sink to wash his hands.

You’ve been wonderful, Sherlock, John said as they went back out to the sitting room. i’ll admit i didn’t expect. Well. Thank you.

It’s my fault you were injured in the first place, his friend said bitterly. 

Let’s not talk about that now, OK. i’m all right and he’s in prison. That’s all that matters. John took his crutch and began to hobble to the sofa. Sherlock stacked two pillows at one end for John to prop his leg up on and helped him lie down before flitting off into the kitchen. John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock’s oxford shoes tap around their flat and breathed in the smell of home. 

Sherlock returned a minute later with two quilts and a glass of water. He set everything down and scuttled off again. John settled back and tried his best to nod out but the returning pain from his injuries coupled with the vague nausea that often came with prescribed opiates stopped him from getting comfortable. He tried turning on his side and sitting up but nothing worked. 

Sherlock came back with an armful of bedding and clothing and John felt a sudden little swell in his chest when he realized that Sherlock meant to sleep on the floor beside him. 

i’m spending the night down here, he said before John could voice a protest. Please don’t argue. 

John didn’t. 

The third time the detective brought John’s medication and three DVDs and two cups of tea. He put everything within reach on the coffee table and went over to the grate to start a fire. John watched him pick through the kindling for a good five minutes before he was finally satisfied and coaxed the tipi of twigs and paper into flame. Then he began arranging his blankets on the floor at right angles to the sofa. John continued trying and failing to arrange himself comfortably before his flatmate finally asked

What’s wrong?

Nothing’s wrong, John murmured. 

_John._

i’m just tired and i can't get comfortable, John admitted. i did get shot four days ago. And pain meds always make me feel ill. Lightheaded. It's normal. Sherlock stacked a few more pillows so that John could recline without lying down. John almost laughed, watching as Sherlock meticulously tucked a quilt around him from his toes all the way up to his shoulders as if he were bent on making his flatmate into a cocoon. 

i’m OK, mate, John said at last. You can stop worrying. Sherlock looked at him like he was going to speak but instead the detective sank to his knees and dropped his head to John’s shoulder. John tipped his cheek against Sherlock’s skull. His hair was unwashed and it smelled like sweat with the barest hint of cigarette smoke. 

i knew what i was getting into, John said softly. Even back when i started working with you. i did know. i accepted the risks then and i still do now. Sherlock sniffed. 

Is there anything i can do to help you feel better? John felt his friend’s words buzz warm against his skin. 

Anything? John asked. His friend nodded into his shoulder. John grinned, thinking it over. Do Good Thing, he said after a moment. Sherlock suddenly disentangled himself and stared at his flatmate.

i don’t know what you mean. John did laugh a little then, regretting it immediately when the wound in his side twinged. 

Yes you do, he said. Sherlock continued to stare at him, his face expressionless. You’re a very good actor but i know that you know exactly what i’m talking about, John persisted. You asked if there was anything you could do to make me feel better. i’m telling you i want to see you do that dance. It was brilliant. 

You. Sherlock’s dove grey eyes narrowed. You saw that. 

The entire thing. John smiled serenely. You were pretty smashed so i’m not surprised you didn’t notice me watching, even with your superior consulting detective senses. Sherlock’s porcelain face flushed. It looked like two pink rose petals had settled onto his cheeks.

i had just got home from dealing with a certain suspect who— John held up a shaky hand.

i know what happened and who you were with and why.

You couldn't possibly—

i heard you shamming gay over the phone twenty minutes before you left for the bar, John told him. i know what happened. And i’m not angry. And i’m not even going to ask where you learned to dance like that, but jesus Sherlock how fucking pissed were you. Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with the smallest shred of pride at John’s inquiry.

Four gin and tonics on top of six lines of pure Columbian cocaine would render most people immobile. He handed John the glass of water and supported the bottom while John took a sip. 

Exactly, John said fondly. But not you. The blush on the other man’s cheeks darkened and he looked away. Hey, come on. John reached up and tugged at one of Sherlock’s curls. i’m high and ill and In Recovery and i want to see you dance. You were quite good shitfaced so i’ll wager you’re even better sober.

You would lose that bet, Dr. Watson. Sherlock sat back triumphant on his heels. i can’t dance sober, hence my performance on that particular night. Wouldn’t you rather hear the violin? i’ll play Brahms.

There’s a bottle of vodka in the cabinet, John reminded him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, John said. i'm sorry, opiates always make me a little...i really was just joking...

No, Sherlock said sharply. John...he bit down on the cut in his lip. i want to. If it will make you happy.

Just being alive and home is more than enough to make me happy, John said gently. Sherlock shrugged. 

i’m happy that you’re alive too, i just hate you sometimes, he growled as he got to his feet. 

No you don’t, John chuckled. You love me, you bugger. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t deny anything. He stalked into the kitchen and came back with a clear liquor bottle and a shot glass, which he filled to the brim and downed like it was nothing. 

A little drink would probably do you some good anyway, John pointed out. You’ve been a wreck since we first got to the E.R. Sherlock poured another shot. He drank it down and stared into the fireplace. 

i dislike seeing you in pain, John, he said softly. For a moment he looked so completely disturbed that John’s throat tightened up and tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He swallowed them back.

i know, but it’s bound to happen sometimes, he told his friend. We live dangerous lives. We both chose that. It’s who we are. Sherlock walked over to the bookshelf and began pawing through John’s CDs in silence. When he found what he was looking for he opened the case and put the CD into his computer, turned on his speakers. 

Sherlock, John said when the detective came to stand in front of the fire. This is...you really didn’t have to do this. Sherlock smiled (a little shyly) and didn’t speak but as the music started up their eyes met for half a second and John could have sworn he heard the warm rumble of Sherlock’s voice inside his head, saying _i would do anything for you._ Then Sherlock started moving like water dripping down wire and John didn’t think anymore. He just watched. 

For three minutes and twenty-two seconds John Watson watched his flatmate dance turn the music into something that _moved_ watched him flex long muscles and angles into fluid he watched his flatmate dance as if he were born to be on stage just like he was born to box and born to play the violin and yet he chose the blood and guts over all of it and yet. In those three minutes and twenty-two seconds John watched his friend become something else entirely 

_The one good thing in my life has gone away i don't know why, she's gone away i don't know where somewhere I can't follow her_

Sherlock, John wanted to say, did you learn to move like that at a strip club or ballet academy Sherlock you will continue to fascinate me for the rest of my time here you are just so fucking full of surprises Sherlock Holmes my god.  
Really.  
My god.


End file.
